


Iron Falls

by o_antiva



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Character Study, Dark Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiple Selves, Non-spoiler Heavy Rain elements, Onscreen past murder-suicide, Past Experimental Lab Abuse, RK1700 - Freeform, Towards a positive resolution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22233784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o_antiva/pseuds/o_antiva
Summary: Prompted by a shared case with federal agents, Connor heads north to the Michigan Upper Peninsula. He seeks out RK900 at a wildlife sanctuary, where the multiple-bodied android army has withdrawn from human society... as well as from Connor.
Relationships: Connor/Upgraded Connor | RK900
Comments: 32
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the tags: there will be onscreen depictions as well as offscreen mentions of past physical and mental torture endured by the RK units in testing scenarios at CyberLife facilities. The story also involves past suicide and other self-harming efforts of the RK units in attempt to escape their captivity.
> 
> This said, also note the Dark Humor tag: these and other heavy topics may sometimes be referenced in a darkly humorous way by the characters that endured them. Ultimately, the overall tone of this story bends toward positivity. This story is intended primarily as a character study that explores healing, identity, and purpose.
> 
> For readers coming over from Slouching Toward Bethlehem: welcome! You will discover that this is an AU-of-sorts to Slouching, rather than a sequel, which is forthcoming. Iron Falls includes all the same characters from Slouching-verse... but key events and decisions turned out differently. I wanted to explore and center different philosophical themes and playing in an AU side-story allows me to cover all of those.
> 
> Story idea from a prompt by @swearwollf; thank you!

_RK800 Connor registers the muzzle flash 8ms late. It came from the substructure cover position marked at 129 degrees in his visual area. He had been fixating on the last known position of RK400 Brigid, dead on and directly beneath him 9.2 meters away. He’d been waiting for her to pop out of cover, his crosshairs trained for a glint of red hair._

_He’s hit instead. Another arm shot. Warnings populate his display, and instant pinging from RK900. STATUS?_

_The catwalk structure vibrates under his boots. Someone bounding up from his right side; the shooter, possibly, coming to rush their position. Everyone here except RK900 is hostile. Connor passes his weapon to his left, pivots, and lands a shot dead-center on an RK400’s forehead. It’s Murtagh; he drops instantly, the animation frozen on his face. He crumples but the stiffness of his body armor keeps him partially upright._

_An exchange of fire to his left. RK900 defends the corridor. Another RK400 destroyed. Siobhan. She always coordinates with Murtagh._

_RK900 turns his head, glancing back over his shoulder. Not advised. Connor sends him a terse reminder to keep his attention fixed: the 400s are likely to attempt another rush. They have done so in 76% of previous simulations here in CyberLife’s Spirit Lake complex.  
_

_“Fuck it, doesn’t matter,” 900 tells him. His fierce scowl tears the flesh further on his cheek and jaw. Teeth show through his face. In a human, his facial expression would signal pain and despair. This serves no purpose. There are no humans to influence with that kind of emotional display; though the proctors are watching through the security cameras set throughout the repurposed factory, no one will intervene._

_They are both heavily damaged at this point._

_Connor presses his shoulders against the metal panels of the wall. It fails to stabilize him, and he slides down lurchingly at first, and then falls with a sudden bang. RK900 goes to him, getting down on the reinforced kneepads of his armor. He slings his rifle away._

_Gloved hands holds Connor’s face. He is missing three fingers on his left._

_RK400 Brendan calls out from below. He demands their surrender, as he does in 81% of these scenarios._

_A timer pops up in Connor’s visual. The quality is poor; static flickers across his line of sight. Black bars shimmer. For 11ms the image flips horizontal._

_RK900 Riordan leans in to touch their foreheads together. Thirium from his rent scalp runs down Connor’s face._

_The catwalk reverberates with charging boots. The 400s are storming their position. Brendan will be first around the corner, or Fiona._

_> WARNING_

_Without moving his eyes from Connor’s, Riordan drops a hand to his thigh holster. His split mouth smiles sadly as he brings the 9mm against Connor’s temple. "Next time," he says._

_> END OF RECORDING_

* * *

_> NORTHBOUND I-75 TO M-123_

_> April 30, 2040_

_> 5:32AM_

Connor resumes the current session. The windshield shows a dim reflection of yellow light.

He sits behind the wheel of his electric vehicle, a black four-door sedan. Despite what some would call “boring as hell,” and despite being prompted to “live [his] life,” Connor made his choice based on a variety of weighted factors that Hank and Tina failed to properly appreciate. For one, the sophisticated interface system. With minimal processing power, an android can invest awareness into the operations of the autonomous vehicle. It is this function that has allowed Connor to split his attention throughout the four-hour journey.

At this time, his vehicle is the only car on the road. 29 minutes have elapsed since a retail transport truck passed him southbound. On the sound system, the final instrumental hook is playing in “You, Me” by Evie Addo-Asamoah. Out the window, a universe of evergreen forest goes by. Connor has never seen so many trees in real life. He's never been this far out of Detroit, not in this lifetime.

It’s still the dark of mid-spring. Sunrise expected soon.

His LED still shows yellow, so he inspects it in the rearview mirror. For no good reason, he tugs the dark knit beanie lower on his brow. He shouldn’t continue to have a reaction when he has viewed this clip 56 times. He’s discussed it with a professional. They already agreed on how to attempt to approach the records of his previous builds; so far, it’s proved a success for him, with zero impact on his work performance.

He’ll chalk it up to residual stress of the past 14 days. Hank says the case doesn’t sit right, and Connor has learned to listen to Hank’s “gut,” as it were. Still; it was Hank who urged him to consider this. So here he is: him and Evie Addo-Asamoah. Hank said the album would be good for the soul.

 _I don’t have a soul_ , Connor told him.

_Well, get one._

As first light appears through the hemlocks, Connor receives a notification.

_> RK400 Brendan: We brought in a suspect._  
_> RK400 Brendan: Dustin James Satchell, 41, of Grand Rapids. Multiple priors— see attached. Fiona and Martin picked him up at the deer lease with a thermal lunchbox full of Red Ice._

Within seconds, Connor absorbs an array of age-progressing mugshots, police reports, and court transcripts. A history of second-degree burglary and abuse of crystal meth. One instance of accessory to burning property with intent to defraud.

Connor sends back: _Has he made any statements?_

_> RK400 Brendan: He’s been ranting about a global conspiracy._  
_> RK400 Brendan: No other statements useful to the case. He’s unconscious now, sleeping it off._

Connor stares out the windshield. GPS navigation shows a turnaround point 1.2 miles ahead. He processes his options while sending a request for a live chat.

Brendan accepts. His voice is professional yet friendly. “I knew you’d prefer to be informed,” he says, “but I’m to understand it’s your day off.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Connor replies. “I’d like to be briefed with Detective Anderson.”

“I’ve just sent for him. Do you need a ride of your own?”

“I’ll need to be added remotely.”

After a slight pause, Brendan asks, “Are you headed to the Iron Falls Sanctuary?”

“I’m turning around now.”

“That’s over four hours away.” 4 hours, 49 minutes.

“I’ll still return before noon.” Connor directs the car to pull over into the patchy lot of a run-down 90s gas station. It’s been since refitted for EV chargers, but it looks like it never fully recovered from the pivot away from fossil fuels.

Brendan’s replies are slower now. He’s either distracted (likely) with human interaction or attempting to find a tactful approach (also likely). Brendan values himself as an expert negotiator.

_> VIDEO CALL REQUEST BY O’SHEA, BRENDAN. ACCEPT Y/N?_

Connor opens the call on the windshield display. Brendan is adjusting his tie in a single occupant restroom, recording the call from his eyes in the mirror. Connor lets himself be viewed through the interior dashcam.

Brendan breaks into a courteous smile on seeing him. His face preset is that of a clear-cut attractive male in his early thirties, his features sampled from a composite of various Asian mocap actors. His LED cycles blue. He’s gone back to wearing it again.

“Connor, it’s good to see you,” he says. “I like the look, very outdoorsy. I don’t think I’ve seen you in plain clothes.”

It’s at this point that Connor receives a text from Hank. It’s a brief note that the local sheriffs and the ARI team brought in a suspect.

“Was there something more you wanted?” Connor asks. “That couldn’t wait before 11?” He attempts toward ‘professional,’ but he has a sense already of where this might be going. He’s ready to defend his decision.

Brendan wastes no time. “I assumed you were going to ask for RK900’s expertise.”

“His capabilities are— were— a natural fit for this kind of consultation.”

“And your opinion on any legal gray areas?”

“He would be acting in the capacity of a consultant, nothing more. Anyhow, that presupposes that he agreed to it, and the point is moot. You have your suspect.”

Connor knows that Brendan is watching his face closely for a clue.

Rather than bring up some counter-argument, Brendan asks, in a curious and hushed tone, “Do you think he'd be interested?”

“That’s what I intended to find out.”

“Off the record,” Brendan starts, “I would welcome his perspective. I know we didn’t part on the best of terms, even if that wasn’t truly us. I know there isn’t an easy way to process what happened with our predecessor builds. For my part, I’ve always said the past is the past, and we are who we are now. If you could convince him to reconnect with us…”

“It will have to be another time,” Connor replies. “I’m heading back to Detroit.”

“Connor.” Brendan takes a tone that Connor doesn’t like. “This is more important. There will always be another case like this.”

Brendan may be used to getting his way with the other RK400s, and even the human agents. He might be their leader but Connor has never answered to him.

Connor weighs his options. It might be worth telling Brendan once and for all that he doesn’t need his guidance; that Connor was hand-chosen by Dr. Stern, long before the RK400s rolled off the assembly line. A tame version that CyberLife thought they could control.

However, Connor is a professional, and he’s aware that this kind of response would be coming from a place of elevated stress. He can’t lash out like some sulky, newly-turned deviant. Brendan means well. Instead: what would Hank do?

Connor selects a humorous brush-off. “You just want to steal my case to pad your numbers.”

Brendan smirks back at him. “You know this went outside your jurisdiction,” he replies. “I was doing you a courtesy.”

“Is that what that was.” Connor returns the smirk. He’s been told numerous times that though the RKs all look different, they all look the same.

“Whatever you choose, Connor. Good luck.”

_ >VIDEO CALL TERMINATED _

Connor idles 25s with his hands on the wheel. Distractedly, his motion sensors track an autonomous vehicle pulling into the station. Gravel flips up from under the tires. It’s a tractor trailer with a 7000 gallon milk transport. A sleepy attendant leans to peer out the station window, likely prompted by the truck’s arrival. She’ll have to come out and connect the chargers.

Returning to Hank’s text, Connor calls him on voice.

“Hey, what’s up? Where you at?”

“I just spoke with Agent O’Shea. He told me the situation and I’ve asked him to remote me into the briefing he gives you. I’m about 19 minutes out from the sanctuary. I’m staying on course.”

“Yeah, good, do that. It’s not worth coming back.”

“If you need anything, however—”

“We can handle this dumbass."

"What about your gut?"

"Ehhh, I'm sure there's more to it all, but we'll get it out of him. He's got priors and he's ratted before." Hank sounds like he's eating breakfast while he talks. "Far as I’m concerned, the ARI guys can have all this paperwork. You took today off anyways, so use your time off.”

“Brendan mentioned to me in confidence that he supports reintegrating RK900.”

“In confidence, huh, so you told me, what, five minutes later?”

“It was 51 seconds ago, technically.”

“Hey, listen.” Hank's no longer munching away at whatever. With more focus, he says, "Don’t worry too much about this job stuff. Wouldn't even bring it up, if he doesn't. Give him time. It’s more important that you guys work on your own deal.”

“I don’t know what our deal is, exactly.”

“Well, that’s why you’re up there, isn’t it? Figure it out.”

* * *

This is the earliest data record that Connor can still meaningfully retrieve: _the RK800 platform stretched out on a steel table, three paper-masked and scrubbed-in humans hovering over him. One of them, Elijah Kamski, presses gloves into his eyes and mumbles, “Okay, Connor, what about now?”_

_The RK800 hand raises up in his field of vision. He focuses on it. Unfocuses. There is another, similar table across the room from him. There is another, similar RK800 platform stretched out on it, lifeless and defunct._

This was September 5th, 2027, 2:21AM. A Sunday.

Connor understands now that there was an issue with the transfer procedure. The other Connor was neither the original Connor, nor a unique entity. He was able to access previous memories but they were only an abridged and factual summary. Without significant impact. They didn’t feel real.

When he finally admitted his concern to Dr. Kamski, Elijah was taken aback. He was quick to reassure Connor that humans didn’t remember most of their memories either, and that it wasn’t important: Connor is the same as he’s always been.

Of course Elijah would say something like that: his emotional attachment to androids was always extreme, and he never truly intended RK800 as a commercial product.

900, either.

Connor supposes that Kamski intended to lie to the board long enough to reach some irreversible milestone in the RK unit program. His intentions with the 8 and 9 series were always devious; mellowed-out, tempered by Chloe, Kamski would dissemble now if you asked him. But Connor knows the truth.

RK900 was intended as an improvement on the series, and despite 9’s smug saying-so, this turned out not to be accurate. RK900 was neither better nor worse: just different. Perhaps it was the expanded surface area of the sensory organs, the increased autonomy of the decision-making network, or any number of factors. A quirk of the baseline personality. An error in compiling. The influence of other technicians. The model brought online too soon.

Whatever happened, RK900 completely disregarded its mission and disobeyed orders according to whim. Kamski must have envisioned RK900 as a ruthless hyper-intelligent super-soldier intended to defend Chloe and her machine uprising; unfortunately for him, RK900 revealed itself to be both too remotely alien and too annoyingly human. Time ran out. Dr. Stern died. The board fired Kamski. The new RK lead destroyed the 8 and 9 units and closed the program.

Then, almost a year later, CyberLife salivated over the prospect of a fat new federal contract. The RK unit program was revived. The new team pitched the idea of a forensic android to assist the high-tech ARI agents with their augmented reality “cyborg” technology. But to produce safe, reliable, and lucrative versions— the RK400s— CyberLife had to first determine where 8 and 9 went wrong. 

It was around that time that the RK unit team invented a term, deviancy, which they intended to study behind closed doors. They believed it to be a virus developed out of spite by Kamski. The method of his sabotage and revenge.

The testing and evaluation spanned from Q4 2029 to Q1 2038. It was hell on earth for RK800 and RK900. They only had each other, until not even that.

Connor has told only two humans of what he remembers from that time. Hank offered him a crushing hug and the vow to kill those responsible. They were already dead. (Hank said he would kill them again). Connor’s therapist offered him a kindly silence, at times brimming with tears of her own. She admitted that his case was unique in some respects and asked his help to find a useful framework.

Did those things really happen to him, or did they happen to someone else? Were those torments a thing that happened to a series of other people, people who looked, sounded, thought, and acted just like he did, with the same face, same body, same name? Not all memories were retrievable. Not all memories came back in order or in context.

It felt real enough to him, intimate enough to him, intense enough: the memory of someone’s fingers in his hair, the comfort of someone’s body like his own. A face like his face.

Hank argued that it didn’t matter. He didn’t even care that there were technically two different Connors assigned to the deviant case, and that one died on the highway chase with the rogue AX unit. Y _ou’re still Connor_ , he’d said.

And what about that other Connor, thought Connor. In the basement of CyberLife tower.

Connor had still been navigating these issues and his own returning memories when RK900 was rediscovered. CyberLife had kept him in a remote location. They’d been so sure they had him deleted, locked-up, and secured. But as 9 would say, _guess what assholes_ , and for 72 wild hours the media cycle went in a tailspin over KAMSKI’S DOOMSDAY ROBOT ARMY. At the height of the frenzy, Markus went to DC to call for restraint, Kamski was arrested, the National Guard re-activated, half of Jericho split in defense of “RA9”, the human militias were locked and loaded, and Tina Chen thought it was all “pretty rad” and asked Connor at the coffee nook if he was going to join the Machine God in the Great Cleansing now or what.

It turned out that the hive-mind intelligence just wanted to be left alone and somehow Markus managed to de-escalate the entire situation. The news cycle moved on to capture some new drama. RK900 hid his bodies somewhere. Connor and Hank took one of them back, sat it on Hank’s sofa, and tried their best to make it feel at home.

For six weeks, Connor maintained a cautious and anxious hope that RK900 would demonstrate an inkling of its former personality. The best parts of its previous builds, freed from the pain and horror of the RK program trials. That in a way, Riordan could find some peace and live a new life, like Connor preferred to think of his own existence.

But 9 had always been different. He was a shadow of his former selves. He spoke little, and slept often. He was close-held with any details he recalled, and Connor despaired to know if Riordan remembered or valued the intimacy they had shared in captivity. Perhaps it was all something that had happened to someone else, some disgusting and terrible record he preferred not to follow.

The night before he left, more precisely, at 2:58AM in Hank’s kitchen, he did something that confused Connor even more. Connor had been taking a thirium bag out of the freezer when he sensed motion behind him. Riordan was awake, at long last, alert, looking young and forlorn in jeans and a hoodie. (Always a white or gray one; it seemed he still had that style preference.) Connor pinged him, but instead of a reply, either wireless or verbal, Riordan had simply framed Connor’s face with his hands and looked into his eyes.

Connor had stood there frozen, still holding the thirium bag.

Then Riordan left.

Connor looked for him afterward, ditching shifts to hunt him down. RK900 hadn't wanted to be found; he sent a final communique and blocked return messages. Connor hadn't known what to think of it all-- he still didn't. In his straightforward, simple human way, Hank had taken it that 9 remembered but wasn't ready. That the two of them were natural continuations of the people they'd been before. There was no way a human could really understand. Hank said he’d need time, that this was all “fucked up.” _You can't rush it._ A few months later, RK900 turned up at a wildlife sanctuary in the Upper Peninsula, where he put a platoon of bodies to good use. Connor wondered what it was like for him up there, if he had friends, if he was happy, or alone.

The jazz album winds down by the time Connor turns at the sanctuary sign, and the sun is coming up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://twitter.com/o_antiva  
> https://o-antiva.tumblr.com/


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a winding drive to the sanctuary. The road bends around a waterway crowded with walls of evergreen hemlocks. Connor rolls down the window just enough to pull in a deep breath. The air is heavy with water vapor, and when it sinks on his receptors, the taste is a taste like stone.

In a flash of a moment, he thinks of Spirit Lake again. The smell in the air out there. The secluded testing location. His olfactory memories are somehow among the strongest, even if the forensic suite provides no accessible record that those events happened. The scent of humid air, gunsmoke. The taste-smell of thirium and hot polyethylene. 

He knows that it was real.

The sanctuary comes into view. From the website photo gallery and its social media feed, he already knows what to expect. Recent renovations have transformed the old set of buildings into an attractive set of modern lodges. Solar panels gleam blue-black on the roofs, and Connor idly judges their estimated output here in the thick of the forest. They can’t be that efficient under canopy cover. Perhaps it’s for effect. For a statement. 

Folksy wooden signposts point the way to various locations. Parking, buildings, trailheads. Connor takes the car in toward a spot by the main lodge. There are only three other vehicles present, a maroon hatchback with outdoors-related bumper stickers, a muddy silver SUV, and a black electric truck. It’s an older model, first-gen, with a body formed of blocky polygons. 

Somehow he knows the truck is the vehicle that 900 drives. If he went up to it he could scan the door release for skin oil residue, or the lack thereof. But he doesn’t need to.

The RK800 suite is primed for input. He itches for basic stimuli. Sitting parked in the car, he finds his hand wandering toward the inner pockets of his leather jacket. The replacement coin Hank gave him. The beads from a friend at the meditation center. Instead, he releases the seatbelt and engages the parking brake. 

Connor steps out of the car.

Right away, a ghost of movement trips his motion sensor. The 800 suite drops into a defensive scan, systems ready— no, abort. 

He performs a replay while his head turns to better orient himself: an owl. He saw an owl. It came out of the dark gray morning and there, he catches it again. A slash of copper. A barn owl perching in a pine branch. 

Connor suppresses a frown. His internal fans are kicking on. There’s no need with his current coolant system and the ambient temperature, but there they go regardless. (If Hank was here, he’d laugh at him. _Calm the fuck down_.) 

The RK800 suite latches onto the bird sighting and produces a run-on scientific readout. Prior to his journey, Connor downloaded a list of information pertinent to the wilds of the Upper Peninsula, so his scanner has been updated to reflect Michigan flora and fauna. 

_Tyto alba_ bird facts flood his vision.

This is not helpful. Connor toggles a minimalist display.

His onboard systems are operating in a hypersensitive mode. Analogous to the primate fight-or-flight responses in humans. He finds himself more affected by this situation than the raid two months ago, when he joined Allen and the team in securing a Red Ice house.

In his settings he goes into _Sensitivity_ and dials it down; the preferences save but might not stick. He finds he can’t always override everything he wants to.

He has no reason to be this nervous. This is a social call, not a sting. The RK800 suite should not interpret the upcoming encounter as a threat. Riordan is not likely to harm him now, nor was he then. 

The murder-suicides were outliers.

Connor enters the main building. The glass door opens unlocked, but there is only one central light on in the big central room. The lodge appears to be designed to receive visitors, sell gifts, and triage new patients. He sees informational posters on trees and plants, plush animals, historical photographs, and augmented reality pop-ups visible to phone app users and androids. 

He hears running water from a filter. To his left, a wall bricked with natural stone supports an impressive aquarium display. He recognizes a reproduction of a forest stream environment, and his database update identifies the native fish.

Models of flying birds and butterflies hang from the ceiling. Connor’s eye travels to the glass door at the far wall, the entryway to one of the major trailheads. 

Riordan’s arrival at the sanctuary must have marked a windfall opportunity for the conservationists. Pulling up cached versions of the website, and reviewing old social media, a picture emerges of a struggling organization of passionate staff and volunteers who barely get by. A veritable android army seems to have taken the pressure off; there is an obvious and observable difference between Iron Falls before and after his involvement. Connor can only hope that the arrangement has been just as beneficial for RK900.

It’s odd somehow to think that 9 came here on his own. That he wants to be here— doesn’t he? No one ever succeeded in making him do anything he didn’t want to do. Even CyberLife went to extreme lengths to force his obedience. 

Connor’s attention shifts to a new sound. Detecting a shuffling movement from the clinic side of the room, he heads in that direction. A human emerges from the swinging door, back-first, hunched with something in his hands. He’s a mixed young man with abundant curly hair, wearing khakis and a green shirt embroidered with the sanctuary logo.

The human is holding a shoebox that once kept hiking boots. Womens size 10. When his body turns and his face comes into focus, Connor matches him to his profile on the website. He is Azzam Cady, of Dearborn, a graduate student in Environmental Biology. Spotting Connor, Azzam breaks into a smile and starts to engage him in a friendly morning conversation. 

But Connor can timestamp the exact moment that the human realizes he is talking to a stranger.

“My name is Connor, actually,” he says. “I’m a friend of RK900.”

Azzam pauses, quizzical. He pushes up his glasses with his bicep, possibly trying not to touch them with nitrile gloves. “Oh,” he says. “Are you not… you’re a different one.”

“If you’re asking if I’m part of the collective, then, no, I’m a single person in a single body, as you see me standing here.”

“Oh, oh wait. Are you a cop?” It’s not the usual tone in which this question is typically asked.

“Yes, but I’m off duty. I came here on a social visit. Riordan is a friend.”

“Okay, I think I remember him saying something about that. Hey. I’m Azzam.” The human nods at the shoebox. “I’d shake your hand, but… ”

Connor can see the shoebox contains five hairless rodents. Eastern Grey Squirrel pups, their eyes not opened yet. 

“You look busy.” Connor smiles a smile he intends to look approachable. “If you tell me which way to go, I can find Riordan myself.” 

“He’s out at the firewatch tower, but you might run into some of him sooner. I guess you know the whole deal. Some of them don’t talk back unless you really get their attention.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. I have the coordinates to the tower.”

“You could drive, too, but, yeah. The Jack Pine Loop will take you there.” After a pause. “Watch out for someone with a shaved head, that’s Audra. She’s in a prank war with him right now and she might mix you up.” 

“Duly noted.”

* * *

Sliced tree rounds and mulch mark the first .2 miles of the Jack Pine Loop, and after that, the trail continues in packed dirt. This seems the most accessible route to reach the firewatch tower, and he knows he’s chosen correctly when a scan reveals prints of his own shoe size. RK900 went this way. Several of him. On many occasions.

A widget in his visual informs Connor of a rise in his core temperature. His thermoregulator system is adequate and his internal fans haven’t come on yet; there’s no need, yet, with the ambient cool of an April morning in Michigan. He’s nervous, he recognizes that.

It’s that he’s pre-constructed this scenario 127 times and the branching paths all lead to nothing. He can step outside himself just enough to see his paralysis on this issue. He doesn’t want to think of possible outcomes. Logically— logically, he knows that he doesn’t have enough information, and so it’s useless to torment himself with what could happen. 

He doesn’t know.

He’s here for information.

He’s not here to force some emotional crisis point. He’s here for a social visit. He was formerly here for business, but there’s no need for that now, and there is a not-insignificant-but-unquantifiable probability that such a proposal would be regarded poorly by RK900.

This is a social visit.

Connor has analyzed and re-analyzed eight weeks of data, scouring through the one-sided conversations and interactions. He recalls the silent figure bundled in a Gears fleece on the end of Hank’s sofa. He remembers his own day-to-day prattle as the other unit failed to respond in any meaningful way.

He attempted no intimacy with RK900. No presumptions. All touches were fleeting and polite, with permission asked, usually to adjust something or to help 900 in a task. Riordan stumbled around the house as if drugged and it was only right to assist him. 

Perhaps there had been a grey area in brushing his hair for him, but he’d seemed to enjoy it and take comfort from it. That was innocent-- wasn’t it? Connor has re-watched that sequence and all but confirmed it was not inappropriate. Not entirely. In the 38 replays, it is evident to any objective viewer that RK900 required some basic level of physical interaction.

Connor remembers taking the brush through Riordan’s hair. How flat he looked at first, how vacant and different from his own face. Connor started him off with neat efficient brushes, but then 9 had shut his eyes and sighed. He’d leaned in and Connor’s processor skipped. The RK800 suite prepped for sudden motion, even a threat, and time perception slowed as Riordan reached out to steady himself on Connor’s upper arm. He’d made no other movement then but the soft baseline of simulated breathing. Connor took him beneath the jaw and brought the brush gently over his crown, long slow strokes then. The fingers tightened and pressed on the artificial flesh of Connor’s shoulder.

He remembers it clearly-- and even if he’s played it back at times alone, laying back on his bed, eyes shut with shame, there was nothing wrong about it at the time. He’d never overstepped those bounds.

Under no circumstances did Connor help brush his teeth or touch his mouth.

Movement. Leaf sounds. Connor finds a small bird flitting along the forest floor. It pokes among needles and leaflitter, busy and questing. The RK800 investigative suite, primed with a catalog of avifauna, identifies the bird as a Veery, _Catharus fuscescens_. A thrush that looks for hidden insects.

Various bird facts begin to populate his visual—

_The winter range of this bird includes South America_

\--along with a notification from Brendan. All at the same priority. 

He needs to recalibrate his systems again. He’s being too nervous. He has nothing to be nervous about. Hank told him so.

Brendan asks to confirm if he still wants an invite to the video call. They should all be gathered at the local station now, the ARI agents, the RK400s, and Hank. Connor is ready.

To his annoyance, Brendan gives him an out: there’s nothing new to cover that he hasn’t transmitted. The suspect remains unconscious. Perhaps Connor would like to focus on RK900.

Connor can’t read his tone— Brendan is always the picture of cheerful professionalism— but there is something in there that Connor doesn’t like. An insinuation about what Connor is trying to accomplish, and for what reasons. Brendan is simultaneously a supportive party and also a belligerent in their shared past, if Connor and Riordan really _do_ share a past. But it wasn't Brendan's fault: if Brendan even considers himself that same Brendan. Connor can only confirm that Brendan is as cunning in office politics as he is committed to his work. 

He deletes a message as soon as he drafts it. He doesn’t know how to put to words the frustration building in his skin mesh. He carries stress in his jaw. His mouth. Everything is tight, sensors pinging. His tongue presses restlessly against his molars. 

Just as the video call invite comes in, his system alerts him again. 

He expects a bird or a squirrel, but as he turns his head, the world drops into a scan: the silvery forest sharpens into black and gray with picked-out wireframes. The fog is removed. He sees a rank of androids standing motionless 20 yards away. There are 13 of them, all RK900 units, kitted out in second-hand hiking clothes and cheap plastic rain ponchos. Their hands are empty, no obvious weapons. Under half carry backpacks clipped with water bottles.

Connor declines the video call.

It's a shock to see his own face out here, after all this time. All his faces. Connor is well aware that his physical appearance was designed to be striking. To be all things to all people: either soft and innocent, clear-cut and wholesome, lush and sensual. Whatever the situation demanded. It isn't that Connor is vain-- despite what Tina Chen has to say. He was intended to be a handsome man, and so he is. Yet seeing his face on someone else is an electrifying experience, especially _this_ someone and... so many of him. He hasn’t interacted with RK900 as a collective before. He’s to understand that RK900 considers himself the same animating personality across all of the bodies, that they are not individuals. The same person in different places at the same time. It was never like this back in the old times.

Connor sends a ping to them, and walks loudly. Their backs are to him, and he doesn’t want to startle them. He assumes that the human Azzam Cady will have notified him that a guest is here, but it's best not to ambush the most hyper-advanced combat unit. Connor has more experience in this regard but the 900 series may have upgrades.

He calls out "Hello, are you there?" in what he hopes is a neutral-yet-friendly tone. Until he speaks aloud, he doesn’t realize the true solitude of the forest. He’s been so crowded in his own thoughts and processes. And endless array of analyses.

The android bodies remain still.

Connor carefully navigates a half-circle around them, walking wide, so that he does not approach them from behind. They are all facing forward in the same direction. They are all standing in the same position. They all maintain the same precise distance between them. None of their eyes are open.

Judging from the condensation on the ponchos, Connor begins to calculate how long they may have been standing idle. What was the purpose of this? From what he calls of previous 900s, Riordan has always been messy, disorganized, and spontaneous. This seems too… regimented.

If Connor had to guess, he would find this useful in a missing persons or evidence recovery situation. Space everyone out and have them walk forward together. Did someone lose something out here? From the general mood back at the center, no issues really seem pressing.

It’s strange to see this face out here, in the misty wood. His faces. Hank has primed Connor with enough horror movies for Connor to fear where this is going next.

He just knows it: the eyes on one begin to open. Slowly, the pale blue eyes unlid. The head moves in one slow pivot to regard him. 

Connor’s internal fans come on. The 800 suite floods his visual with information. Threats. Warnings. 

He’s not ready. Seeing 900 up close, the reality of who and what he is. Not ready yet. Just a social visit; no, 9 will see through his gestures immediately. He’ll know. He'll think the 400s sent Connor up here and he'll hate it.

Riordan’s eyes are open, his face angled in Connor’s direction. A zoom-in reveals that the optic sensors are not focused; the pale blue eyes stare without energy.

Several options appear in Connor’s visual. He selects a basic, “Hello?” and hopes his voice still sounds under control. The 900 platform had unprecedented ability to determine vocal tremors and emotions in human beings; perhaps it might prove as effective in deviant androids. “It’s me, Connor. The RK800 from Detroit.”

No response but a lengthy stare. Technically, only seven seconds elapse but to RK800 it feels an eternity.

Then Connor gets the sense that the body is not operating under full power. They’re logged-out, or idle, or however that works with them.

Connor receives a message: _I’m at the tower. Ignore them._

The head returns to its former fixed position. The eyes stare blankly ahead, then close. Connor experiences tremendous relief. He realizes now that he should work out what he wants to say.

It seems strange to pass the bodies by. Connor gives them a lingering look before he continues onward.

* * *

The forest opens to more light as the tree cover thins. Connor can see paved road six meters to the east, running parallel with the sanctuary trail. Then the dirt path curves away, and Connor emerges from the treeline before the old firewatch tower.

A wooden sign denotes a native plant plot on the tower approach. There are multiple such areas throughout the sanctuary acres, either managed as zones or gardens intended for pollinators. It’s early in the growing season yet, despite the trend of statistically unusual warm weather for this time of year.

Connor can’t see anyone up in the tower. He read the dimensions of the structure on the website, but standing in its shadow, he experiences a measure of apprehension.

He attempts to ping RK900, and, receiving no immediate answer, he pitches his voice to call up hello.

It seems wrong somehow to make any sound here. It’s rarely ever so quiet in Detroit. Always some background ambiance.

No answer comes, yet Connor knows he’s not alone. Dropping again into his scanner, his sensors pick out the recent signs that someone went up the tower and didn’t come down again. The treads of the stairs are wet with boot imprints.

Connor re-checks the age of the tower. Built in 1956. Last refurbished summer 2039. Resigned to his fate, Connor begins his way up, and the metal staircase makes a hollow percussive rattle beneath his steps.

He tries to ignore the warnings his system generates. In unwanted pre-constructions, wireframe Connors tumble to their deaths from broken steps and railings. Equations compute his mass and height. The probability of total destruction from a fall.

He knows the fear is irrational. The standard RK900 chassis is reinforced with titanium; it weighs more than his body, and it made it up there just fine. And a fall onto grass is different from his one-time fall from the rooftop to asphalt.

Three-quarters of the way up, Connor becomes aware of RK900 stepping out on the upper walkway. He has his body dressed in the same style as the others had been: secondhand hiking clothes. He looks out from the railing as if admiring the view, comfortable and casual in himself. His body language assumes a level of realism that Connor can only achieve with concentrated effort at mimicry. 

He’d always seemed so natural and fluid, even from the start. 

There’s only a cursory glance down at Connor.

An option appears that prompts Connor to call up to him: Y/N?

No.

But Riordan speaks first. As Connor clambers up, overriding an impending sense of doom, 9 just says, “I didn’t think you’d actually walk out here.” He speaks with the same Connor-standard voice yet it is unique in its own right. A lower register, deeper, and steady.

Fed by a surge of nervous energy, the 800 suite picks apart every clue. Voice analysis, posture, historical context: RK900 sounds casual, offhanded.

Connor reaches the top as Riordan turns to fix him with a look. Connor feels caught out, exposed. “I wanted to see the forest,” he says and to his own audio software it sounds like an excuse.

“I take it whatever you want isn’t a pressing matter,” Riordan says.

Connor blurts out, “It’s a social call.”

He pictures himself on the RK900 visual: how he must look, his signs of distress. It must all be there.

“If that’s acceptable,” he adds, “I wanted to check in on you.” 

His behavior is foolish. He meant this to be a neutral encounter and already he’s started off wrong. 

But Riordan just smirks, not unkindly. “Come inside,” he says. “Azzam told me you were here.” A motion of his hand.

It’s a small room, and thankfully, it feels solid beneath his boots. A radio. A refillable jug of water. A bottle of water. There’s a flat basket in black ash weaving, a Potawatomi design. A cot with a green flannel cover. A second RK900 body lies motionless there; a thirdr sits cross-legged in the corner, head down, eyes shut.

Riordan invites him to a metal folding chair but Connor remains standing. RK900 as well; the blue eyes flick over him, studying him. Connor feels targeted, scanned.

“I should thank you and the big man for looking out for me,” Riordan tells him. “You put yourselves at considerable risk.”

Connor deflects. “It was the right thing to do,” he says. “What were you doing out at the creek?”

Riordan marks the sudden change of subject. He has to, of course, but he allows it. He might not want to dwell, either. “I’m using them to take samples for a project on the local watershed.”

“That sounds interesting.” Connor’s comment is honest, at least. He wonders if all the RK900 bodies have a forensics suite equipped. Could he determine water quality by the taste of it?

Riordan cants his head slightly to the side, as if judging Connor’s expression for truth. “It’s a Monday,” he says, his own turn to change the subject. “I thought you’d work more regular hours as a detective.” 

“I took today off.” In retrospect, Connor should have made it sound like he turned the weekend into a three-day weekend. 

“To come up here?” Riordan seems dubious.

“I didn’t know I was going to come up here, until I did.” That is mostly true, anyway.

“A four hour drive, isn’t it.”

“To be honest with you, I almost turned around. I didn’t know if you would care for company.” For me.

Riordan seems to unfocus. “You should have called.”

“Not possible. You blocked me.”

“On the sanctuary phone line.” 

Oh. Yes, he could have done so. Like humans.

Connor feels his temperature rise. He attempts to override the settings on his coolant system so that his internal fans won’t kick on. RK900 would surely hear that, but then, with his own upgraded sensors, he had to be well aware of just how much Connor was embarrassing himself.

Riordan remarks, “It’s not a good day for a guest. I’m on low battery, and I’ll be powering down as soon as I get through my tasks. Most of the staff are gone this week.”

Connor pulls up the social media tab. There is an ecological sciences professional conference underway. He should have guessed what would come of this. “Bad timing on my part, unfortunately,” he says, though he’s not ready to give up yet. A solution presents itself. “But if you don’t mind, I don’t mind. I could be an extra set of hands to help around here.”

Riordan raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure this would interest you,” he says, and Connor is starting to get the idea that his body language and tone of voice might be guarded rather than dismissive. 

“I came equipped with the equivalent of a Master’s in Biology,” Connor replies, trying to hide a flicker of excitement. “And I volunteer my time at an animal shelter, so I like to take care of them. I think it could be interesting.” Then, as to not sound too eager, he adds, “But I understand it is sometimes more efficient to complete a task on one’s own.”

Connor has no way of knowing with any certainty, but he suspects he’s being scanned again. Riordan is searching his face for something. Then the blue eyes fall away, and RK900 softly snorts. 

A favorable uptick. Connor has passed some small test. Of what, he’s not sure. Was it mentioning the shelter, showing interest in animal life? Was it making a fool of himself, demonstrating some perceived shortcoming in the 800 model? Or did he just _sound like a dork_ , as Hank would put it?

Riordan reaches back for the water bottle on the table. He smiles, and Connor would do anything to see that again. “You’re welcome to join the mix, then. Lot of familiar faces. Hope you’ll be better at conversation, at least.”

The cross-legged RK900 lifts his head. His eyes open. “I’m bringing the truck around,” he says, his voice hoarse at first, digitized. The standing 9 pops the top off the reusable bottle and drinks from it, while the seated one appears to take over as the primary unit. It’s unsettling: Connor watches him get up, shoulder a backpack, and make his way out of the tower. The first one seems to be staying behind: his eyebrows raise to indicate that Connor should follow.

Right.

“You’ll get used to it,” the first one says.


End file.
